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That morning, I call in sick at the lubrication firm. I’ve been throwing up all night and have one hell of a hangover. Plus I know Socrates is going to call, and that’s not helping my nausea.
Concerned because, when I haven’t been vomiting, I’ve been crying, Caro wants to stay home with me, but eventually I persuade her to go to work, insisting that I’m going to stay in bed and sleep for most of the day.
Once she and Hana have gone, though, I drag my duvet out to the sofa and curl up there with my phone.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this miserable, not even when Dad got his diagnosis. I was devastated then, of course, but even though he’s so important to me, and losing him would be horrific, it wasn’t about me. All the hurt and pain we’ve been going through felt indirect, as if it was light that had passed through a prism, scattering across me in bands of colorful emotions. But what happened last night was like a bolt of lightning, or a sheet of fire, burning me to a crisp in its wake. And now I just feel terrible. I let Mack down, and I’ve let Dad down too. It’s not even as if I can console myself that my unlawful actions have been worth it. It’s all been for nothing.
I watch the clock on my phone slowly move toward eight a.m. My stomach churns, and I pull the bowl I brought with me closer in case I want to vomit again. Not that there’s anything left in my stomach. I’m pretty sure I turned inside out last night.
Eight o’clock arrives, and then the bastard keeps me waiting until seven minutes past before he finally calls.
“How did it go?” he asks, not even bothering with a greeting.
“Not well.” I don’t have the courage to say I couldn’t go through with it. Instead I say, “He caught me taking photographs and threw me out.”
“Fuck!” He spits the word at me.
I swallow hard. “I’m sorry. I tried.”
“Did he ask you why you were doing it? What did you tell him?”
“Nothing, I swear. As soon as he caught me, he got really angry and threw me out. I didn’t get a chance to tell him anything.” I cross my fingers, hoping he believes me.
“Well, that’s fucking brilliant,” he says. “What a waste of time.”
The phone slips in my sweaty hand, and I tighten my grip. “I tried.”
“Not hard enough, clearly. Next time, you need to make sure they’re asleep before you start nosing about.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m done.” My voice sounds dull, like a blunt knife. “I shouldn’t have done it in the first place. And I can’t do it again.”
“Bullshit. Another office, another CEO. This time you’ll be ready, you’ll do it better.”
Resentment burns in my stomach like acid. “No. I’m out. I shouldn’t have agreed to do it.”
“If you don’t, that’s it,” he says harshly. “You think I’m going to give you the money out of the goodness of my heart?”
The resentment turns to anger, leaping like a flame. I push off the duvet and get to my feet. “You’re a vulture, preying on the vulnerable,” I yell. “Go and pick off some other fucking carcass. I’m done.”
I end the call and throw the phone onto the sofa.
Then I sink onto it, my face in my hands, and bawl my eyes out.
I cry until there are no tears left. Then I cry a bit more, until my throat is raw and I’m exhausted.
I still feel terrible, but acknowledge that a seed of relief has lodged inside me at the thought of being free of him.
Holding on to that, I curl up into a ball and fall into an exhausted sleep.
*
I’m startled awake by the ringing of the front doorbell.
I push up, then scramble for my phone amongst the folds of the duvet to check the time. Eight forty-six. Blearily, I get to my feet and go over to the door. Maybe Caro’s come back to check on me, and she forgot her keys again. Or perhaps it’s a delivery—I know Hana has ordered some books from Amazon.
